Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(13)

My ironing technique became the focus of a near-daily inspection. Nick would go to our closet, file through the row of pressed garments, and tell me where I'd gone wrong. "You need to iron the edges more slowly to get all the little creases out," or, "You need to redo the armhole seams."

"You need to use less starch."

"The back's not smooth enough."

Exasperated and defeated, I finally resorted to using my personal money — we each had the same amount to spend each week to have Nick's shirts professionally laundered and pressed. I thought it was a good solution. But when Nick found a row of shirts hanging in plastic coverings in the closet, he was pissed.

"I thought we agreed," he said shortly, "that you were going to learn to do them."

"I used my own money." I gave him a placating smile. "I'm ironing deficient. Maybe I need a multivitamin."

He refused to smile back. "You're not trying hard enough."

I found it hard to believe we were having an argument over something as trivial as shirts. It wasn't really about the shirts. Maybe he felt I wasn't contributing enough to the relationship. Maybe I needed to be more loving, more supportive. He was going through stress. Holiday stress, work stress, newlywed stress.

"I'll try harder," I said. "But sweetheart . . . is there anything else bothering you? Something we should talk about besides ironing? You know I'd do anything for you."

Nick gave me a cold stare. "All I need is for you to f**king get something right for a change."

I was angry for approximately ten minutes. After that, I was suffused with fear. I was going to fail at marriage, the most important thing I had ever tried to do.

So I called Todd, who sympathized and said everyone had stupid arguments with their partner. We agreed it was just part of a normal relationship. I didn't dare talk to anyone in my family, because I would have rather died than let Dad suspect the marriage wasn't going well.

I apologized abjectly to Nick.

"No, it was my fault," he said, wrapping his arms around me in a warm firm hug. His forgiveness was such a relief, I felt tears spring in my eyes. "I'm asking too much of you," he continued. "You can't help the way you were brought up. You were never expected to do things for other people. But in the real world, it's the small gestures, the little things, that show a guy you love him. I'd appreciate it if you'd make more of an effort." And he rubbed my feet after dinner, and told me to stop apologizing.

The next day, I saw a new can of spray starch in the laundry closet. The ironing board had been unfolded and set up for me, so I could practice while Nick started dinner.

We went out one night with two other couples, who were guys from the construction firm Nick worked at, and their wives. I was excited about doing something social. It had been a surprise to discover that although Nick had grown up in Dallas, he didn't seem to have any old friends to introduce me to. They had all moved away, or weren't worth bothering with, he had told me. I was eager to make some friends in Dallas, and I wanted to make a good impression.

At lunch hour I went to the hotel salon and had one of the stylists trim several inches of my long hair. When she was finished the floor was littered with wavy black locks, and my hair was medium-length and sleek. "You should never let your hair get longer than this," the stylist told me. "The way you had it before was too much for someone as petite as you. It was overwhelming your face."

I hadn't mentioned to Nick that I was getting a haircut. He loved it long, and I knew he would have tried to talk me out of it. Besides, I thought once he saw how flattering it was, not to mention easier to care for, he would change his mind.

As soon as he picked me up, Nick started to frown. "Looks like you've been busy today." His fingers were tight on the steering wheel.

"Do you like it? It feels great." I shook my head from side to side like a hair model. "It was about time I had a good, healthy trim."

"That's not a trim. Most of your hair is gone." Every word was edged with disapproval and disappointment.

"I was tired of my college look. I think this is more polished."

"Your long hair was special. Now it looks ordinary."

I felt as if someone had just emptied a syringe of liquid anxiety into my veins. "I'm sorry if you don't like it. But it was too much work. And it's my hair, anyway."

"Well, I'm the one who has to look at you every day."

My skin seemed to shrink until my body was compressed in a tight envelope. "The stylist said it was overwhelming my face."

"I'm glad you and she think the world needs to see more of your goddamn face," he muttered.

I endured about fifteen minutes of thick, choking silence while Nick maneuvered through the six o'clock traffic. We were going straight to the restaurant to meet his friends.

"By the way," Nick said abruptly, "just so you won't be surprised, I've told people your name is Marie."

I stared at his profile in complete incomprehension. Marie was my middle name, the one no one had ever used unless I was in trouble. The sound of "Haven Marie" had always been a sure sign that something had hit the fan.

"Why didn't you tell them my first name?" I managed to ask.

Nick didn't look at me. "Because it makes you sound like a hick."